


The Negotiation

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, warning for mention of Grenfell Tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: In which John summons a demon.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	The Negotiation

Under two thin blankets, England’s greatest wizard shivered.

Bloody Chas, borrowing his heater during a week like this. Granted, it had originally been Chas’s heater, poached from his flat seven years ago under John’s coat, which worthy garment had also, in its day, sheltered Chas’s kettle, bedside lamp, socks, three of his best spoons, and at least fifty of his paperbacks (Rene’s paperbacks, actually; the fact that John shared literary preferences with someone he still vaguely resented for stealing his best mate was one he preferred not to acknowledge).

But _bloody_ Chas had a bloody _wife_ to keep his _bloody toes_ warm at night. What did John have? Not so much as a hot water bottle since the last one had been fatally wounded in a fight with a handsome bloke he’d picked up at the pub, who’d sucked him off like an expert and then turned into a werewolf. And no pyjamas either. He’d never been able to sleep in pyjamas so he’d never bought or nicked or borrowed any.

As another wave of cold swept through him, he wondered if he should get his clothes back on. Nah. They weren’t clean, exactly, but they were passable, and if he was careful he might be able to go another week before having to visit the laundromat. Godawful place. And the owner was an outspoken Brexiteer.

“Piss,” he growled after another twenty minutes spent failing to fall asleep, and went to get his trenchcoat off the hook. Wasn’t much of a duvet, but at least it provided an extra layer of insulation.

Bloody, _bloody_ Chas.

0

He was woken up after barely three hours by the smell of smoke.

Assuming the worst and the obvious, he sat up rubbing his eyes. “Evenin’, gents. Always nice when you lot drop by. Honestly, I’m tempted to let you drag me home with you this time. At least I won’t be so fucking col-…”

Belatedly, he registered the absence of sulphuric odours and razor-sharp claws ripping holes in his shitty carpet. He peered around the room while his left hand groped absently for his Silk Cuts; nothing lurking on his bookshelf, on his cobweb-riddled ceiling, or near the stack of cardboard boxes yet to be unpacked three months after moving in. He was alone.

And yet; smoke.

“Interesting,” he said, lighting a ciggie and adding to it.

He checked under the bed to be sure. Then a thought occurred.

Taking another drag, he ambled over to his window, which was cracked and smeared with pigeon shit. Opened it. Looked out. Looked down. Opined: “Hmm. Very interesting.”

His flat was on the eighth floor. Floors four, five, and six were on fire. Thick tongues of flame were licking their way up the side of the building and a crowd was gathering in the parking lot.

He shut the window and asked the cosmos and the cobwebs, “And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that, eh?”

0

Obviously, there was a plan. There’d been a plan ever since Grenfell.

That plan, however, had not anticipated two factors.

The first was the ingrowing toenail a man named Phil had suffered last week.

The second was the arrival of a man named Benny in the flat two doors down from John last month.

Long story short; Phil was John’s landlord. Keeping Phil in line had been one of the plan’s primary supporting structures. John had worked out how to handle landlords; they were a slippery bunch, but provided you fed them a steady diet of low-key terror and occasionally manifested as a horrifying shadowbeast in their bathroom mirrors while they were shaving, you could usually ensure that they kept the fire alarms well-maintained and didn’t fill the walls with nuclear waste.

He’d had Phil well-trained within mere weeks of moving in. Got him to fix the plumbing on the third floor, talked him out of evicting a family on the second floor, and persuaded him to see the benefits of allowing John to bring home the occasional dismembered human body part in a jar, or live chicken.

The latest thing John had needed from Phil was the elevator.

Now. Conventional wisdom held that one should not use elevators while there was a fire on the premises. But great steaming bollocks to that, stairs were awful, he was a bloody wizard, and he could do what he liked. There were a variety of spells and enchantments that he could use to get the thing down to the ground safely even in the midst of a roaring inferno.

The _problem_ was that he needed to be able to get _into_ the sodding elevator for that to happen, and it was currently stuck between the fourth floor and the fifth, where it had been ever since the day Phil had checked into hospital to get his toe seen to. John hadn’t yet had time to terrify Phil’s replacement into addressing the matter; he’d been busy.

Exceptionally inconvenient.

However, as to why he actually _needed_ the elevator when the stairs were perfectly functional, albeit odious…

That was where Benny came in.

Charming, brown-eyed Benny from two doors down, who John had only spoken to twice, who was thirty-eight, fiercely opinionated, working on his Masters in Medieval Literature, and might, just possibly, have snuck a peak at John’s arse during their last brief meeting. Benny, who John thought he had the potential to fancy.

Benny used a wheelchair and Benny lived alone, save for his horrible cat.

It was as John was reviewing these facts that there came a rapping at his door.

“Evening, Mister Constantine,” said Benny when he opened it.

Resting on his lap was a cat box, within which John could detect the gleaming yellow eyes of Fudge, one of the worst things God had ever done. He had snow-white fur and a sweet pink little nose, and the one time John had tried to give him a stroke he’d needed ten stiches.

“Evening, Benny.”

“I think there’s a fire downstairs.”

“Just noticed it, yeah. Looks big.”

Despite it being the middle of the night, Benny was smartly dressed in a blue turtleneck and grey slacks, his dark hair neatly combed back. John was painfully cognisant of his own off-white boxers and unclipped toenails.

Benny nodded. “Pretty big. I’ve been watching it for a while, hoping they’d get it under control. But, well, that doesn’t seem to be happening. There’s a lot of smoke in my room now, so I got Fudgey into his box and I – uh – I guess I was hoping you could help us both get downstairs. I think everyone else has already evacuated.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

“No problem, mate. Uh. Elevator’s not working. M’sure you already know.”

With a chuckle, Benny said, “Oh, _trust_ me, I know. It’s been a nightmare. I mean, I’m mostly writing up my research at the moment, so I don’t need to go out that often, but whenever I do I have to call one of my friends over. Just to get to the ground floor! And I was _supposed_ to _have_ a spot on the ground floor the day I moved in, except then the guy said it wasn’t available yet and I’d have to wait a month, and so on and so on.”

“Bloody Phil,” John hissed. “Soon as he gets out of hospital, I’m shoving that toenail right up his arse. Okay, not to worry. Stairs, then. I’ll carry you and you can carry Fudge. We’ll get some towels wet and slap ‘em over our mouths and noses so the smoke don’t bother us too much and…”

He trailed off; Benny was shaking his head. “We can’t use the stairs. I’ve got a mate who lives on the third floor and she texted me to say that they’re blocked. The fire made a big chunk of the ceiling collapse. No way to get through.”

Trying to emulate his neighbour’s extremely sexy put-togetherness, despite having noticed that the corridor in which they were standing was also now filling up with smoke, John nodded. “No, right, got it. Don’t suppose she offered any helpful advice concerning what the fuck you were supposed to do instead?”

“She said I should stay in my bathroom and push some towels in the gap between the door and the floor so the smoke wouldn’t get in. Which… well. That really seems like a temporary solution, doesn’t it?”

A very, very faint waver had crept into his voice.

And now John was _angry_.

“I’m gonna sort this out,” he said. “Come in.”

As soon as Benny had wheeled into his living room, John darted down the corridor, banging on doors and shouting at the top of his lungs, in case anyone hadn’t realised what was happening. By the time he’d checked every flat, it was getting hard to see. Harder to breathe.

When he returned to his flat, he shut the door before ripping his thin blankets off the bed and stuffing them into the crack.

“Temporary solution,” he said to Benny. “But I only need to buy us a little time. Now, this next part’s gonna be – er – ah, no point beating around the bush, it’s gonna be weird. You’re probably gonna think I’m cra-…”

“Oh, I know you can do magic,” Benny said brightly, then lowered his voice like he thought MI5 might be listening in. “Mrs Carthwright from the fourth floor told me what you did to her husband. I didn’t believe her until I saw the video.”

John groaned. “I told her to delete the bloody video.”

“It wasn’t only that. I spoke to around twenty other people. Damn near everyone in this building has a story about you, Mister Constantine. That’s the reason I came to you. I’m not stupid; I know a hopeless situation when I see one. But people say you can make miracles happen.”

“Mostly what I make are messes, love. Still, nothing ventured. Let’s see if I can’t pull a miracle out of me arse, eh?”

Thanks to decades of practice, it only took him three minutes to get set up; candles, salt circle, herbs, a jar containing the metacarpals of the wicked (freshly liberated from the grave of one Mister Carthwright).

“You’ve got a cool place,” said Benny, politely, while John was lighting the candles. “Um – where’s your bed, though?”

John hiked a thumb toward the two suitcases and three pillows he’d stacked on top of one another to serve as a makeshift mattress. “I move around a lot. Get chucked out a lot too. So I don’t buy a proper one until I’m settled in and relatively certain I’ll be sticking around for more than a few months.”

Eyeing the huge, gaudy, gold-framed mirror hanging over John’s collection of vintage cardboard boxes, Benny said, “But _that’s_ a sensible investment.”

“No, _that_ is cursed. Got it from a Russian bloke in Salisbury two weeks back. It kept telling him to murder Prince Andrew. Recognising that as the eminently reasonable suggestion it was, I took the poor thing off his hands and gave it a safe new home. Exdalphelious – say hello to our guest.”

A ghostly mouth with no lips and two tongues appeared in the glass and rasped, “Well-met, young mortal. Death to the monarchy and all who would do battle in its name.”

“Probably a good thing I’ve been low-key terrified for the last thirty minutes or that would freak me right the fuck out,” Benny mused. “Hey, do you need any help, Mister Constantine?”

Rolling up his sleeves, John said, “Nope, just about done. And call me John. Let’s quickly go through the rules: while the ritual’s underway, don’t touch anything and don’t say anything unless I specifically ask you to, in which case you use as few words as possible, alright? And whatever you do, don’t give it your full name or the name of anyone you love.”

“‘It’?”

“Yeah,” John said, sitting down cross-legged on the floor in front of Benny’s wheelchair, putting himself at eye-level with grumpy old Fudge. “Look, this is dangerous stuff. I’ve done it before. There’s a solid chance of it working. But I can’t _guarantee_ it will. If something goes wrong, you might die.”

Benny squeezed his eyes shut. “Dead anyway if we don’t at least try, right? Let’s go. I’m ready.”

“Hold out your hand, then.”

0

The real trick to summoning demons? Knowing who to ask for.

And who not to.

**“Who has need of my services?”**

Not only were there millions of demons, all with complicated names designed to be hard to remember, making it very easy to get them mixed up; their power, and thus their usefulness, tended to be inversely proportional to their willingness to be a good sport. The difference between a mediocre wizard (read; a dead wizard) and a marginally effective wizard was a mental list of the fifteen or so demons who were right at the heart of the Venn diagram of ‘powerful’, ‘cooperative’, and ‘able to manifest in the presence of a human without carelessly vaporising said human’s eyeballs’.

“Evening, Figgy,” said John. “Been a while.”

As usual, Fyjhardhiele had taken the form of a black deer, with human arms where her antlers should have been. As her body solidified in the middle of the salt circle, the smoke creeping in through the cracks in John’s floorboards froze in place, as did a fly crossing the room. Her doing; no demon could stop time, but they _could_ slow it down when those summoning them were in physical danger, to allow for prolonged negotiations.

**“Constantine,”** she rumbled. **“How delightful. I was hunting the souls of wealthy men through Hell’s flesh forest, but this promises to be far more entertaining.”**

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Benny was mumbling.

The demon studied him. **“And this? Ah – an apprentice, at last! Congratulations, John.”**

“I’ve already told you that’s not on the cards, Figgy.”

Heaving a deep sigh, she said, **“It’s your life, of course. But it does seem a terrible waste not to pass on your talents. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”**

“Right now, I’m in serious danger of not getting any older. Let’s talk business, eh?”

**“Oh, very well. Maybe one day mine ears will rejoice at the wheezing of tiny Constantines. How can I help you, old friend?”**

“Building’s on fire. Me and my mate need a way out.”

She bent down to peak into the cat carrier and Fudge growled. **“Oooh – what a sweet creature. I do wish we had them in Hell. Constantine, forgive me; I’m a touch confused. There are many, many people in this building, yes? I can sense them. Downstairs, upstairs. Trapped. Afraid. Why don’t you ask me to simply put out the fire and save _all_ of them, rather than just you and your friend?”**

John grit his teeth, conscious of Benny staring at him, silently asking the exact same question. “Because I know you, Figgy. I know your prices. I’m asking for what I know I can pay for. Now, I’m willing to offer-…”

“No, hold on,” Benny interrupted, and John’s heart sank. “How many other people are trapped?”

It was already hopeless; still, he had to try. “Ben, mate, that’s not relevant at the mo-…”

**“Twenty-seven,”** Fyjhardhiele chirped.

“And you can save all of them?” Benny asked, leaning forward with his hands clasped.

**“I can indeed. Easily.”**

Benny turned to John with an all-too-familiar look. The same damn look John always got from decent, honourable people who hadn’t yet learned why magic couldn’t solve every problem in the world; why it didn’t really solve _any_ problems, just turned them into different problems other people had to deal with. “John, we can’t let everyone else die. We can’t.”

Wanting very much to go back to bed, John said, “So. Benny. Here’s the thing. Figgy says she can save a few people for us. She’s not exactly lying but she’s not exactly telling the truth either. Demons don’t save humans. They just pull off a sort of accounting trick. Let’s say Larry’s mum, dad, and sister are about to be eaten up by a hungry lion. Larry summons a demon and asks it to save them. It does – for the price of Larry’s soul. But what’s gonna happen next, right, is that the lion’s gonna leave with an empty belly and go eat someone else’s mum, dad, and sister. Get it? Heaven and Hell are both run by bookkeepers and one or another they make _sure_ the right number of people die at the right time.”

It gave him a flicker of hope to see Benny listening intently, seemingly understanding. “Okay. So if we get Figgy to save the twenty-seven people in this building…”

“…somewhere and somehow, another twenty-seven will be fucked. Exactly. You’ve got it. Agh, Benny, it’s rough. I know it’s rough. But that’s just – just how it is. The world’s a shit place.”

Rapping his fingers rhythmically on the top of the cat carrier, Benny said, “And it’s the same for us, right?”

“What?”

“The two of us. And Fudge. If we make a deal with Figgy to save ourselves, somewhere in the world two other guys and one other cat are gonna die. Yeah?”

This was why he hated working with clever people. “Yes.”

“So, following your logic, we really shouldn’t save ourselves, either. If protecting our community, our _neighbours_ , isn’t worth it, then saving ourselves isn’t worth it either.”

“It don’t matter,” John snapped, harsher than he’d intended. “It don’t matter, and I’ll tell you why; because you’re not even thinking about the price. Remember the lion story? Larry buys three lives with his one soul? Yeah, see, what actually happens is Larry also signs over his sister’s soul. Because demons see inside us and they work out exactly how much we’re willing to sacrifice and _that’s_ what they demand. Go on – ask her. Ask Figgy what she wants in return for saving you, me, and the cat.”

Swallowing, Benny said to the demon, “What?”

**“As usual, Constantine takes a most uncharitable view of my people and our customs,”** she tutted, ears twitching. **“I’m not greedy. Nor unreasonable. For the lives of two men and one beast, I would ask only your gratitude and a single favour from both of you, to be discussed at a later date. Surely that’s not excessive?”**

“Now,” John said, “ask her what it would cost to save everyone in this building.”

**“Ah, well… that is a rather more onerous request. Altering the fates of so many people all at once would use up a large chunk of my power.”**

“Thought you said it would be easy?” said Benny, eyes narrowing.

**“As such,”** she went on, as though she’d not heard him, **“I would have to request your soul, and the souls of your mother, father, both brothers, and niece as payment.”**

“There it is,” John muttered.

Benny exhaled, slow and even. “Okay. Uh. Wow. Wait, one question; why don’t you want John’s soul? He’s getting saved too. He’s part of this deal.”

**“He is a special case.”**

“Oh?”

Lightning crackled over Fyjhardhiele’s black fur and a thick red book appeared in her arms. **“Hell’s records show that his soul is already spoken for, by an entity far more powerful than I.”**

John smirked. “Yep. See, Ben, Figgy’s one of those demons with the rare gift of being able to think beyond her next meal. She knows that if, on the day the First of the Fallen expects me to arrive in Hell, she tries to claim my soul as her legal property – tries to take him to court over me, as it were – she’ll be fully dismantled and her remains converted into an interestingly-shaped chandelier that will, no doubt, serve as a splendid conversation piece while his Nibs is working out several millennia worth of pent-up frustration on my arsehole.”

**“Er.”**

Both men broke off their staring contest to look toward Fyjhardhiele, who was examining her book with something like disquiet on her face.

“Problem?” asked John.

**“It appears,”** she said, **“that young Benjamin Shaw is _also_ a special case. My word.”**

God, why couldn’t it ever be easy? “You wanna elaborate, love?”

She handed him the book. **“He has a destiny. Handcrafted by Heaven.”**

“What? What’s it say?” said Benny, trying to peak at the page John was studying.

John closed the book and set it down. “Usually best if people aren’t aware of their destinies. Trust me, you don’t wanna spend the rest of your life agonising over free will and all that tosh. Long story short; you’re valuable goods, so far as Hell’s concerned.”

**“ _Very_ valuable,”** Fyjhardhiele purred, lightly stroking Benny’s jaw with her index finger. **“By claiming you, I would greatly offend those feathery bastards upstairs. Hah! Oh, how they would howl and gnash their teeth upon learning that I had thwarted their plans. The mere thought of it!”**

For the first time since John had opened the door, he saw a genuine smile – albeit small and grim – take root on Benny’s handsome face. “Valuable, huh? Maybe valuable enough to pay for twenty-seven souls?”

**“Oh, certainly. We wouldn’t need to involve your family at all.”**

Benny chewed his lower lip. “I see.”

John wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Benny by the shoulders, shake him violently, and demand to know what right he had to put John through this _again_.

_I wanted to save you! Fuck’s sake! You were nice! You were kind! I just wanted to fucking help you out, and now you’re going to be sweet-talked into a noble sacrifice by a bloody demon and… and…_

“John?” said Benny. “Hey, are you crying?”

“Mm. No. M’fine,” he grunted, and cleared his throat. “It’s your call, love. Your destiny.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Benny, softly. Sadly. 

“Maybe.”

“I’ve got friends in this building. One of them’s got kids. I couldn’t live with myself if they died, John. I – I _have_ to do this.”

The cat carrier exploded.

0

John trudged back to consciousness with little enthusiasm. Opening his eyes, he expected to see Benny’s remains splattered across his walls and ceiling.

“Are you okay?” Benny asked, gazing down at him with concern.

Not a scratch on him. Not a scratch on the wheelchair. Yet there were the smouldering pieces of the cat carrier, all over the floor.

_“Greetings, Constantine.”_

“Uh,” John said, staring at Fudge, who was hovering six feet in the air and glowing. “Figgy?”

**“I have no idea,”** said the demon, who’d retreated to the edge of the salt circle. **“The beast destroyed the box, a piece of shrapnel smacked you in the head, and then he started talking.”**

“He’s never done that before,” Benny contributed.

_“Be not afraid,”_ said Fudge, his voice small and rumbly and oddly, indescribably beautiful.

John began mentally reviewing every substance he’d put in his mouth over the last forty-eight hours. He concluded that the list didn’t feature any hallucinogens and that it did feature the same brand of antipsychotics that had served him reliably for the last three years. So this was probably really happening. Fair enough.

“Ghost, god, or demon?” he asked, sitting up and checking to see if his head was bleeding.

Fudge’s fluffy tail swayed back and forth. _“Such things are not as clear-cut among animals as they are among humans. I am slightly a ghost and slightly a god. I have many names and have roamed the Earth for millennia, seeking out and protecting those whom the Creator has chosen for greatness.”_

“Ah. So you’re Benny’s bodyguard.”

Fyjhardhiele swore, fists clenching. **“By the lords of Hell, I think I _do_ know you!”**

_“Indeed, demon. In my first incarnation, I was the lion sent to test Saint Jerome in the desert.”_

“I would like it noted that I am no longer coping with any of this,” Benny mumbled.

**“Yes,”** the demon gasped, inching forward. **“The lion with a thorn in its paw. The lion Jerome healed, who then served him devotedly for the rest of his days. _God’s_ lion. Well met, noble enemy! Are you going to battle me for this mortal’s soul?”**

Fudge licked his paw, then his rear. _“No. I’m going to negotiate with you. You say Benjamin’s soul is worth twenty-seven other mortals’ lives. How many lives, pray, is_ my _soul worth?”_

**“I – that – hundreds, of course! Thousands! You are an agent of divinity! But surely you wouldn’t lower yourself so? Surely you’d not become my property merely to save the creatures huddled in this pathetic pile of concrete?”**

Christ, she was drooling.

_“My motives are none of your business,”_ Fudge trilled, turning upside down in mid-air and stretching languidly. _“The offer is on the table; my soul in exchange for the lives of Benny and the twenty-seven aforementioned other mortals. Take it or leave it.”_

Benny wheeled himself forward so that he could face his pet directly. “Fudge?”

Floating down to sit in his lap, Fudge purred, _“Yes, Benny?”_

“You d-don’t have to do this,” he said, stroking him with hands that shook. “Whatever you were before, you’re my little mate now. I’m the one who’s supposed to look out for you.”

Fudge licked his hand. _“You’ve been a very good friend, Benny. I love you.”_

He hopped off his lap and padded over to Fyjhardhiele. _“Be aware, demon, that I have powerful friends in the Silver City. If you violate the terms of our deal, they will hear of it and they will not be merciful.”_

**“I’ve no need to violate the terms, noble enemy. I’m about to drag one of God’s warriors through the gates of Hell! This is a most fortuitous day. The First of the Fallen will reward me handsomely.”**

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” John said, lighting a fresh ciggie. “He’s not exactly prone to gratitude. Either way, tell the sour old prick I said hello.”

Fyjhardhiele extended one of her hooves in a courtly manner. Fudge – or whatever his real name was – held up his paw. An awkward handshake was exchanged.

“Wh-what happens now?” Benny asked John in a whisper, an instant before time and space spasmed and John was knocked on his arse for the second time that night. His ears rang. The stink of sulphur filled up the room, as did Fyjhardhiele’s triumphant cackling.

John kept his eyes closed. He already knew all too well what Hell looked like.

When he dared open them, Benny and Fudge had vanished.

**“The fire is out,”** Fyjhardhiele reported, bowing low. **“Your young man is now outside in the parking lot, perfectly safe, along with the twenty-seven others who were in peril.”**

“Hang on – what about _me_?”

She shrugged. Ugh. Deer shouldn’t shrug. **“I’m sure the wise and wily John Constantine can take care of himself. The deal didn’t specifically include you.”**

“Shithead.”

**“Heh. As I said, the fire is out. However, the building has been left structurally unsound. By my estimation, you have fifteen seconds until it collapses. Farewell.”**

In a flash of fire, she was gone.

John spent five of his seconds taking a drag on his cigarette and quietly hating everything. Then he snatched Exdalphelious off the wall, threw his trenchcoat around both of them, flung open the window, muttered a spell – barely worth it, barely strong enough to shield more than thirty percent of his body – and jumped.

“We should do this to the queen one day!” the mirror enthused on the way down.

0

“How long’re you gonna be here, exactly?” Chas grumbled, setting down his cup of tea and plate of ginger biscuits.

Snuggled in Chas’s armchair, watching Chas’s TV and warming his toes in front of Chas’s heater, John pouted. “Be nice to me. I’m in a _lot_ of pain.”

Chas had, of course, been the first to sign John’s leg cast, and also the first to doodle a big hairy dick on it.

“Can’t be all that bad. You’ve had about ten of those edibles since breakfast. Oi – you tell that bugger to keep his mouth shut, alright?” said Chas, pointing at Exdalphelious, who was too big to fit on the Chandler household’s photo-strewn walls and had thus been propped up next to Chas’s favourite pot plant. “Rene and him don’t get on.”

That wasn’t surprising. The cracks that had appeared upon landing next to John in a dumpster had quickly transformed, in the eyes of their bearer, into noble wounds sustained in the war on negligent landlords and other agents of capital. Exdalphelious now prompted John every morning for news of the dozen lawsuits nipping at Phil’s heels and his anti-monarchist rhetoric had been replaced by the sort of undergraduate-level communist screeds that tended to get on the nerves of people who, like Rene, had been actual communists for decades.

John was about to reply when the telly started coughing up static.

“Aw, not again. Useless thing,” Chas muttered, moving to whack it with his fist, only to recoil with a shriek as a huge, leathery hand reached out of the static, clawed fingers flexing.

John slurped his tea. “Took you long enough.”

If the First of the Fallen was trying to emulate the brat from _The Ring_ – unlikely; he had profoundly shit taste in movies – he failed. While it was creepy watching a drenched, emaciated waif crawl across the room on all fours, the effect was lessened when said waif was replaced with a huge, grunting, mostly-naked bloke who didn’t look like he’d climbed out of a well so much as a porn mag.

More to the point, Chas’s telly was pretty small and he had to wiggle to get his hips loose.

Once he finally was standing upright, the top of his head grazing the ceiling, the First glared down at John and growled, “What the gibbering fuck is this?”

He held up Fudge by the scruff of his neck.

_“Hello again, Constantine,”_ said God’s lion, serenely. _“I’ve been shitting on everything he owns.”_

The First flung him down with enough force to reduce him to a chunky puddle had he been an ordinary housecat, then waved a finger under John’s nose and hissed, “There will be a reckoning, John. One day. Ooh, yes.”

This time, he had the common sense to turn into a cloud of eldritch vapour before re-entering the television. Pity. John had been looking forward to watching those wiggles from a different angle.

“You alright?” he said, as Fudge hopped up onto his lap.

Making biscuits on the side of the armchair, Fudge replied, _“Yes, yes. Alas, the denizens of the underworld seem to have lost their edge since Lucifer sought greener pastures. I’ve done things to pigeons those neophytes could scarcely imagine. Where’s Benny?”_

“Staying with his mum for the moment. I’ll have Chas take you there after he’s done wheeling me down to the pub.”

“But of course, your sodding majesty,” sighed Chas, going to fetch his coat.

“And buying me a steak ‘n kidney pie!” John called after him.

  
**The end**


End file.
